


Little Bites

by RZZMG



Series: Hermione x Draco stories [45]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Image, Dramione Duet Exchange, F/M, Family Drama, Food Kink, Forced Proximity, Friends to Lovers, Quidditch, Romantic Comedy, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RZZMG/pseuds/RZZMG
Summary: Some girls got hearts and love and body positivity and an everlasting supply of chocolates.Some girls got…Quidditch tickets.Hermione Granger's about to meet the temptation of her life: a man who wants to give her all of the above.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Hermione x Draco stories [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/332626
Comments: 100
Kudos: 432
Collections: Best of DMHG, Quidditch Stories, Round 11 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my 2019 Dramione-Duet Fic Exchange entry.
> 
> Prompts: Friends-To-Lovers, Forced Proximity, Quidditch-Either playing or watching, The beginning of a relationship, Era-Any (I chose Post-Hogwarts, EWE), Rating-Any (I chose 'Mature')
> 
> To my exchange partner: I hope you enjoy the story! It's my first big foray back into fandom after a hiatus.

* * *

Her mother was at her again.

“Your hips look wider, Hermione. Have you gained weight again?”

Hermione slanted a quick look her father’s way to see what he might add to the conversation—something hopeful along the lines of, _‘mind your own business, dear’_, but the man simply raised his newspaper higher and pretended not to have heard.

Bloody coward.

“No, Mum. I haven’t gained weight. It’s your imagination.”

It wasn’t, but this had become her default response anytime her mother opened her mouth lately. Yes, Hermione _had_ gained about two stone in the years since leaving the war behind, but it certainly wasn’t the woman’s place to so rudely comment. Besides, Hermione had needed to gain that kind of poundage, as she’d nearly starved to death during that final year of camping in the wilds, when Ron and Harry had eaten the lion’s share of the canned stores she’d packed away for their escape. Back then she’d dropped down into double-digit range, dangerously unhealthy to the point of looking like a prisoner of war who’d been intentionally starved, and her organs had suffered something terrible for it. As had her general well-being; she fought off several bouts of flu in succession for almost the entire winter of 1998. It had taken years for her immune system to start functioning properly again and for her body to get back up to its proper weight.

…And surpass it.

But that was really not her mum’s place to criticize. Hermione was an adult, and no longer needed parental guidance. It was her battle to wage to keep it within acceptable limits.

“Well, this has been fun,” she lied as she quickly finished up the breakfast her father had made and gathered up her purse to make a hasty exit from her childhood home. “I have to go, though. Ron and Harry are having their first game of the season today, and they arranged for me to be in the special V.I.P. box to watch the action up close. I promised I’d be there to see them kick-off their new positions.”

Her mother seemed disconcerted that she’d leave within only two hours of arriving this time. “Oh, well, don’t you want to-”

“Maybe next time,” she offered and hurriedly kissed her parents on their cheeks and said her goodbyes. “I’ll bring treats!”

“Don’t bother,” her mother called back as she rushed for the front door. “You know _we_ don’t eat sweets.”

A parting shot, as usual, and it found its mark.

As Hermione quickly paced down the walkway away from their house, she felt nothing but relief, despite how rudely she’d behaved. She loved her parents, but honestly, they pushed her patience to its bounds and her mother… The woman knew how to wound with verbal barbs that stung long after they’d been tripped. 

At least she would have a full stomach going into today’s hours-long Quidditch spectating event, and needn’t worry about engaging in ‘boredom snacking’, which was responsible for the weight on her hips. She’d just bring a book to keep her mind busy, and if she was really lucky, things would be tied up by dinner.

Oh, the things one did for friendship!

Vaguely, just before she Disapparated to head for home, she wondered who else had nabbed themselves a seat in the exclusive V.I.P. box. Would it be anyone she knew from the old days, or just a bunch of stuffy old wizards and witches engaging in a bit of sports betting?


	2. Chapter 2

The last time she’d seen Draco Malfoy, he’d been sitting before the Wizengamot, a dried husk of a boy with a bent back and a heartsick stare. Meek of voice, repentant, he’d bowed before the might of strict, but impartial government intent upon reforming him of his “evil ways”.

Eight years and a heavy-handed Ministry probation later, and he was back to being a little devil of their youth with an impish grin, and grey eyes that winked with mischief. Not maliciousness, however, and therein lie the difference.

Well, that and how he’d grown into his looks…

“How did _you_ get in here?” Hermione demanded, gracing him with a scowl and a suspicious glare.

Thus far, no one else had shown up to claim the two seats to either side of her, and as the time for kick-off neared, she’d begun to believe that no one else had bought a box seat this season. For a few minutes there, she’d imagined enjoying the benefits of such a place all by her onesies. The quiet would have allowed for some serious reading to get done!

But then she’d gotten a box mate.

“The same as you, I suspect,” he replied with nary a care for her glowering. “Purchased a season V.I.P. ticket.”

Well, she hadn’t purchased her ticket, _per se_, although it had been a compensation of sorts…

To her surprise, Malfoy offered her the polite opportunity to partake of whatever was in the paper bag he carried. An olive branch, she supposed.

“Pear Drop?”

She made a face, knowing how damaging sweets were to the teeth. Her dentist father had been on about that fact for all of her life and she’d done a damnable job of limiting access to please him.

“No, thank you, however.”

He gave a casual shrug, as if you say, ‘your loss’.

Things between them grew awkward after that as neither seemed willing to speak to the other. Hermione fidgeted in her chair, trying to get comfortable by extending the leg rest and readjusting the pillow behind her head as she leaned back to wait for the show to start. Her boredom soon overtook her, though. Rather than reach for one of the books in her charmed bag, she decided to just lie there and take in her surroundings.

The private box was exactly as stated: closed off from the rest of the enthusiasts outside. A well-constructed, enclosed wooden structure, it sat high up in a tower on the edge of the pitch, overlooking the exact middle of the field. A wide glass window in front, reinforced with magic to be indestructible, allowed an unimpeded view of the action, while minimizing the noise coming from outside. A speaker set high up on the wall allowed the attendees to hear the play-by-play action as called out by the official commentator when turned on, and a sign on the wall showcased the current score, which was set to Puddlemere United=“0”, Wimbourne Wasps=“0” in preparation for today’s match. In the corner was a private restroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower, so the box’s spectators wouldn’t have to use the common privacy down below, and a house-elf had been assigned to attend to the needs of the box’s exclusive guests.

Unlike the common bench seats that encircled the arena, the box was equipped with five side-by-side recliners draped in dark brown suede and which shared arms. Pillows and blankets were also supplied in case games carried on for days at a time or the V.I.P. guests wanted greater comfort.

Currently, Malfoy had his elbow up on her arm rest.

“Could you scooch over a seat, if you’re staying?” she requested with a negligent wave towards the empty seat to his left. “I prefer to utilize both arm rests when I’m sitting.”

Malfoy stopped with a pear drop half way to his mouth and he stared at her, his expression considering. When his lips turned with a smirk, she knew he was going to make this day as difficult for her as possible. “Sorry, my ticket is specifically assigned to this seat for the season,” he said with smug satisfaction. “Guess we’re to be close neighbours for the next few months, Granger.”

When she opened her mouth to lodge a protest, he slyly cut her off.

“You wouldn’t want me stealing another bloke’s seat, would you? That would be just _rude._”

She glared at him, onto his game. “As if that’s ever bothered you before.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement as his smile widened. “Then tell me how would that work? Am I to say, ‘Sorry, old chum, but the lady with the wild hair, the one hogging up the coveted center seat in the box just needed the extra room for her weary arms’ and shove him off?”

“He’d probably be the first in your life to ever deem you chivalrous,” she countered with dry humour, “and reward you with a big bag of Licorice Allsorts to accommodate your horrific suffering.”

He laughed at her quip, and to her surprise, it was an honest and good sound.

“Ooh, we’re definitely having fun this year, you and me,” he predicted and settled back into his chair.

He put his arm back up on their shared arm rest, claiming it his territory.

“We’ll just see about that,” she warned him and reached into his bag to grab a handful of pear drops, determined to make him just as miserable as she felt.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re in the wrong seat…again.”

Like a lazy dragon basking atop its treasure trove, Malfoy stretched in the seat he’d taken to her left and settled in.

“Am I?” he asked with feigned concern. “Funny that, as my ticket says otherwise.”

She waved her hand down at the empty seat to his left. “Just move one more down, please. You tend to hog the arm rest.”

Rather than comply, he inclined in his seat. “Didn’t we go over this last time?” he asked in a rhetorical fashion.

Hermione wasn’t going to let his insolence lie, however.

“For heaven’s sake, no one else showed up last time!” she reminded him, irritated that he just wouldn’t do as she asked. “The statistical likelihood of them doing so today, as this is a scrimmage match, is-”

His broad shoulders gave a negligent shrug. “Not good odds, I’m aware, but all the same, I don’t fancy having to tell some bloke why I’ve decided to pirate his chair.” He gave her side-eye and a grin guaranteed to send her blood pressure soaring. “Stealing is bad, Granger. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

She counted to ten in her head.

“If you take the arm rest, I’m beating you up.”

He laughed with real delight and withdrew from within the pocket of his robes another of those enigmatic paper bags, this time filled with chocolate-covered pretzels. He held it in his right hand as an open invitation for her to partake, too, as he purposefully monopolized their shared arm rest.

“Tell me something, Granger: are you always such a violent harpy when you don’t get your way?” he asked as he munched down on his snack.

No, she thought as she fumed and turned back to the stadium, something about Slytherin’s dodgy princeling had always riled her up in ways that not even Ron could manage. It was as if they’d been born to be adversaries, opposites clashing in every way…

“I can be,” she threatened as the teams took the field below and she reached into the snack bag, pillaging the pretzels.


	4. Chapter 4

“Look, I don’t care if your ticket says you’re assigned seat 2A, you are not sitting next to me!”

Once again, Malfoy plunked down into the seat to Hermione’s left, this time carrying a bag of roasted chestnuts, the smell of which made her stomach growl with ravenous hunger. She hadn’t eaten since the crack of dawn, and here it was nearing one o’clock and the game _still_ hadn’t kicked off, and she was literally starving to death one cell at a time.

She eyed the bag with something akin to lust.

“’Fraid I am, Granger, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” he challenged her.

Despite having thrown down the gauntlet, he held his goodie bag out to her once more.

It was a bribe to mollify her no doubt.

Although her need to gnaw on the furniture to keep her hunger at bay was an enormous drain on her energies, she refused the bait. The first time, she’d practically swallowed the whole bag of pear drops, and this last time, she’d cleaned him out of the chocolate-covered pretzels, leaving only crumbs. Her lack of control where Malfoy’s snacks were concerned was embarrassing! Who would have guessed she was such a junk food fiend? Outside of this private box, away from _him_, she never engaged in the temptation to cheat her diet!

This time, however, she vowed she wouldn’t give into him and his delicious offerings of bite-sized nosh. She did thank him for the offer however, for no matter his intentions to provoke her, _she _was determined to remain civil, at least.

“You’re sure?” he asked in a final tempting bid to win her over.

“Quite,” she reassured him and turned her attention to the field below, where the teams were just beginning to file out of the locker rooms.

The crowd went wild as Puddlemere did a run of the pitch, showing off their fancy new uniforms for the fans. At some point, Harry whizzed by the private box without stopping or acknowledging her, but she knew it was all a part of the show. He had seen her, most likely, and that was what he’d been after anyway—proof of her support. She gave it enthusiastically by waving at him through the glass. Ron, she knew, was in the coach’s box, watching the action with an eye for strategy. He’d proven to be much more adept at planning Quidditch manoeuvers than in catching dark wizards.

She was glad they’d both decided to quit the Ministry after capturing the last of the Death Eaters three years prior, and that they’d decided to pursue their love of Quidditch instead. It had been clear to Hermione for years that Harry and Ron had only gone into the Aurors to continue serving the public’s needs, not their own wants, and that the burden was simply too great for their war-weary souls. Quidditch was freedom; it was a job without the albatross of guilt hanging about their necks. Besides, their thrill-seeking personalities were simply not suited for government bureaucracy and mundanity, which is what their positions had become once their primary task had been completed and the last Lestrange had been put in Azkaban.

When Harry had been scouted by Puddlemere three years ago, Ron had put in for Strategic Aide to the team’s coach. Over time, they’d both risen in the ranks, with Harry finally taking first-string Seeker this year and Ron taking on the role of Assistant Coach.

And then her boys had _finally_ come out as a couple at the Burrow over Easter dinner, and everyone had been happy for them. Things had simply clicked into place, and the rightness of it had settled over her.

She smiled, thinking how life had a funny way of working out…

As the teams took their places on the field, preparing for the Snitch to be released, the sound of Malfoy’s snack bag rustling as he reached in brought her back into the now. The scent of vanilla and sugar filled the air a second later, making her mouth water.

“Are the chestnuts…candied?” she dared to ask, unable to resist the temptation to know.

“Mmm,” Malfoy acknowledged with a nod as he swallowed one down. “With a dusting of sea salt.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Really?”

That _did_ sound delicious…if not terribly unhealthy.

His eyes slanted in her direction and then he held the bag out to her again.

“I shouldn’t,” she weakly protested. “They’re probably bad for the teeth.”

Lips twitching with amusement, he shook the bag at her. “Live a little,” he coaxed. “You deserve it, too.”

With a stomach rebelling against her best efforts to keep it from taking over, she reached in and took one. A quick pop into her mouth and she was moaning at the delicious flavours that rolled over her tongue as she chewed.

“Oh, that is-”

“Sinful.”

She glanced over at him, surprised at his choice in words. “Decadent, I would have said.”

“Same thing in the world of snacking,” he teased. “Want another?”

“Yes, please.”

They shared the bag in silence, and occasionally their hands would brush as they reached at the same time. She would stammer an apology and he would smile. It was all very civilized.

…And exciting and strange.

“Thank you,” she said as she ate the last one upon his offer. “That was delicious.”

He called the box’s house-elf over and ordered proper lunch for them both.

“You needn’t have-” she began.

His warm, masculine laughter cut her off. “Granger, between your hair and your stomach, I’m not sure which will attack me next. Best to get one of the two out of the way, at least.”

She elbowed him off her arm rest.

He stole a chip from off her plate once the food arrived on their serving trays.

They spent an amicable afternoon that way, ribbing each other in between watching the game.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, what did you bring this time?”

Malfoy slithered into the chair at Hermione’s side and silently offered her the paper bag he was holding. The grin on his face was positively filthy as she took it from him. Instinct told her she wasn’t going to like what she found inside.

Her sixth sense lied.

Opening the cache, she spied some sort of spicy-sweet snack mix—crisps, roasted nuts, and big chunks of dark chocolate. The scent that wafted upwards on the air made her mouth water.

Shuddering, she fought off the beast in her belly and handed the bag back to him. “No, thank you. I haven’t had lunch yet and that will spoil it.”

He shook the tempting pouch at her. “This could be lunch.”

It was an act of will to say, “That is not a substitute for a healthy, calorie-conscientious meal.”

As he sat back, allowing the bag to linger in his hand on their shared arm rest, he replied, “I never pegged you for conformity when it really mattered, especially in relation to a diet.”

“Well, I do conform…occasionally,” she countered, just to be contrary and bristling under the weight of his comment about her diet and what it implied. It was too close to things her mother had said to her lately… “Really, chocolate, macadamia nuts, and potato-starch crisps are not a source of good nutrition for anyone. And if you were implying somewhere in there that I’ve fattened up over the years-”

One of his eyebrows shot up, as if she’d surprised him.

“Fattened up?”

As his gaze sized her up to either confirm or deny the observation, Hermione felt her heart quicken and her spine straighten. She sucked her tummy in and held her breath, waiting on pins and needles for his verdict.

“I can’t see it,” he admitted with a casual shrug, “but it’s your body. As long as you’re good with you and you’re healthy, who cares what others think? Fuck ‘em.” He rifled around in his bag to pull out a handful of snacky goodness, gaze turned to the action happening down below as the teams lined up for the whistle. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Granger. Nothing at all.”

As she quietly sat back in her chair, oddly relieved to hear his thoughts on the matter, she considered what he said. He was the first person in her life to ever actually tell her that body shaming was wrong. Logically, she knew it. She’d read enough to know that the rags targeting women were intentionally designed to force conformity to an ideal of ‘femininity’ that the patriarchy artificially constructed, but to hear it said aloud by a man took her aback. Even her mother had never been so supportive of such values!

“Thank you,” she said.

He didn’t reply, but he did hold out the snack bag for her and jiggle it to tempt her to dive in.

She did without hesitation.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t believe you.”

Next to her in his customary spot in what had quickly become “their” V.I.P. box, since no one else seemed inclined to join them for whatever reason, Malfoy seemed entirely nonplussed by her denouncement. “It’s true. You looked downright edible that night, Granger,” he defended his earlier statements. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you, and practically every bloke there wanted to throat-punch Krum every time his hands strayed too far south.”

“I’ll have you know that Viktor was a perfect gentleman at the Yule Ball,” she defended her long-time friend of the slander against his actions that one night years earlier. “The only thing he stole from me that night was a kiss.”

“Your first?”

“Of course.”

“Anything else he ‘steal’…eventually, I mean?”

Hermione reached into the paper bag he’d left open for her to freely rob and grabbed another handful of caramel popcorn. “Not my heart, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She knew exactly what he was aiming for, but wasn’t going to give up such information for free.

“I’m talking about something a little more-” His eyes strayed down her body before working their way back up. “-physically intimate.”

She munched her candied snack, considering how best to go about answering the question. Finally, she settled upon negotiation. “I’ll tell if you will.”

The smile he gave her beamed with pride for her deviousness…and it made her pulse quicken.

“Alright, but you go first,” he countered, “and you have to say where it happened.”

“Fine,” she stated, not in the least bit ashamed of her sexuality or the events surrounding it. Her first time might have been rushed, but it had certainly been exciting and quite novel. “It was Oliver Wood...in the Gryffindor locker room’s showers.”

Malfoy sputtered and had to reach for a drink to wash down the popcorn he’d been chewing lest he choke on it. “Salazar’s balls, well that explains everything!” He pointed an accusing finger in her face. “You’re a Quidditch groupie!”

“I am not!”

“No? Let’s count up the astounding coincidences together.” He began ticking off her list of sins on his caramel-sticky fingers. “First you kiss Krum, then you fuck Wood—at the pitch no less, and I’m assuming you shagged Weasley, too, since everyone knew you were dating that year after the war ended. I know you saw Pucey last year; word gets around in Slytherin circles. And now here you are, in the V.I.P. box for Puddlemere, when you and I both know you don’t really watch the game nor do you care who wins a match. Face it,” he said with a smug expression and wiggled his fingers at her, “you’re just here to ogle the men in their tight uniforms.”

Hermione opened her mouth to deny the accusations, but just as quickly paused, realizing there was a whole lot of truth to what he was saying. Every man she’d dated after Ron had once played Quidditch, too—Anthony Rickett, Jeremy Stretton, yes, even that snake, Adrian Pucey.

“Oh, dear,” she said and sat back in her chair as the truth smacked her in the face.

She had a very specific type, didn’t she?

As she absently reached for another handful of caramel heaven, she said, “You know, I’ve never considered it like that before.”

Malfoy tossed some popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth as it came back down. As he did, she couldn’t help but notice the way his bicep flexed and how his throat bobbed and…wow. He’d certainly grown into his body, too, hadn’t he?

“Well, I did,” he confided in her. “Thought about it, I mean, and it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? You’re beauty and the brains looking for the brawn. Just missing that first piece to put it all together.”

She blushed at his very blunt pronouncement of her attributes. “Er, why would you care who I loved?” she wondered instead to deflect.

“Shagged,” he corrected and shrugged. “You didn’t love any of them. And…because, I do.”

Gods, he was so arrogant to presume he knew her that well and so irritatingly vague when it came to getting information out of him, too!

“Well, what about you? I told, so now fess up.”

Turning back to the game, he munched on his snack long and slow, drawing it out before finally admitting, “Tamsin Applebee.”

“The Hufflepuff who was a year our senior and a Chaser on their House team?”

“I fancied her arse in her uniform,” he admitted, “and the girl could roll a broom like I’d never seen.”

Hermione sniggered. “So, I’m not the only Quidditch groupie around here then, hmm?”

He chuffed a laugh, conceding her point.

“Where’d it happen?” she asked, curious as to his first time awkwardness, since he’d learned hers.

At first she thought he wouldn’t say, but then he gave up the secret.

“In a niche outside the kitchens at Hogwarts, behind some ratty, old curtains.”

Huh. Well, that certainly was a more uncomfortable spot than where she’d done it.

“The one with all the barrels?” she asked for clarification.

Her companion’s head snapped around and his shock was quite comical to behold. For once, she’d left Draco Malfoy speechless!

“Yes, I know the one,” she said before he could ask, “but not because it was a common shag hole. It’s where all the best dried fruit was kept.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I can’t believe they’re playing in this weather.”

Malfoy leaned against the front window and looked out through the sheeting rain that blurred everything. “It’s Quidditch,” he replied, as if that explained the insanity.

“Well, they’re all going to catch pneumonia at this rate,” she predicted as she reached into the paper bag of miniature mince pies and took a second helping, savouring the spices and currents across her tongue as she bit down. These little treats were addicting…and each as fattening as eating a pound of lard.

She’d just walk it off later, when the weather improved.

“There’s not much to see, even pressed against the window as you are.”

His shoulders lifted and quickly dropped again, as if that also explained everything he needed to say on the matter.

“Alright, stay there while I finish off the snacks you brought.”

“Save me one,” he said and turned his head as someone flashed by the window at full speed. “Ooh, I think Potter’s seen the Snitch!”

“What?”

Setting her half-eaten pie aside, she got up and raced to the window to stand beside Malfoy.

“Where is he?”

He pointed off to the right, but Hermione couldn’t spy her friend in the downpour. It truly was raining dragons and griffins out there.

Lighting flashed suddenly, striking the center of the pitch with a cascading, ‘BOOM!’ Hermione jumped.

“We shouldn’t be standing in front of the window. That’s foolish.”

“It’s warded,” Malfoy reminded her. “We’re safe.”

She tugged on his jumper as she backed away. “Still, I’d feel a lot better if you came away from the window.”

He followed, reluctantly, while keeping an eye on the action outside. “What will you give me if I sit back down with you?”

“Respect.”

The lightning flashed somewhere outside again. Hermione let out an, _“Oh!”_ of surprise and tugged at him harder to get him to move away from the window, wards or not. Some things were just instinctual, and a healthy deference to nature was one of them.

Unfortunately, she tripped as she stepped backwards…and she pulled Malfoy over with her.

They landed in a heap on her big, cozy chair, him half turned and draped over her as she was pressed back into the cushions. Their faces were only inches apart, his chest was crushed to hers, and one of his knees was wedged in tight between her legs.

For a moment, they both froze, unsure of what to do. Their positioning was awkward, and yet Hermione felt her blood was warmer than she could ever remember it and her heart was pounding under her ribs…

“You have mince pie in your hair.”

It took a second for his words, uttered in a soft, lover’s tone, to sink in.

“W-What?”

“You fell on your pie, Granger.”

He snerked and then started laughing, right in her face.

Rather than let her immense mortification take charge, Hermione calmly reached behind her with one hand, grabbed a gob of mince pie filling, and brought it forth for them both to consider. When Malfoy’s laughter doubled, as she knew it would, she proceeded to rub it all through his hair. Just so they’d be even.

“You little mink,” he said and grabbed for the paper bag containing the remaining mince pies.

This prompted a food fight between them that culminated in them both being covered in sweet goo scented of nutmeg and cinnamon, and their clothing, hair, hands, and faces ruined for it.

Thank goodness the box had a shower, was all Hermione could think in between bouts of peeling laughter.

As they sat in their respective chairs in the aftermath, both giggling like silly gooses and totally ignoring the fact that the game and the storm were long-since over, Hermione realized for the first time that food could be fun…with the right person.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione threw in the towel: her diet was officially ruined.

The moment she stepped foot in Puddlemere’s private Quidditch box, _he_ was always there like some Pied Piper of snacks to tempt her with some scrumptious treat while they watched either an official match or an exhibition home game. Seven games and she’d gained six pounds as a result…and there was still five months left to go in the season!

Her mother was going to take one look at her and gloat.

Fortunately, the next two games would be away, which gave her a reprieve as she never went to those matches. She could use that time to work out and sweat off some poundage…without Malfoy around to tempt her.

For some odd reason, that thought made her feel glum, not invigorated.

* * *

A letter arrived at her window the week before the next match, delivered by the world’s most obnoxious eagle owl. In its claws was a note from its owner, the world’s most obnoxious Slytherin git, who had somehow over the last several months, by means of some creative culinary tribute, become her friend…and a baffling fascination.

** _Granger,_ **

** _As a result of a last minute cancellation by that sod, Zabini, I’ve found myself in possession of two private box seat tickets for the next game in Karasjok, Norway against the Karasjok Kites. Would you like to have it?_ **

** _Don’t take too long to RSVP, or I might be forced to ask Nott to go instead, and he’s far less fun to tease._ **

** _~Draco _ **

** _P.S. I’ll bring the apple slices._ **

She sighed at such childishness and penned a reply.

** _Malfoy,_ **

** _I expect a far better selection of snacks if I’m to tolerate a portkey trip and you for an entire afternoon._ **

** _~Hermione_ **

** **

As the owl flew off, she realized her work-out plans would have to be put on holiday until after the New Year.


	9. Chapter 9

It was nearly noon and time for lunch, and Malfoy had yet to appear in the private box he’d reserved for the away game.

Hermione’s stomach rumbled as loudly as the pre-game announcements coming in through the megaphone. It didn’t help they were advertising the concession stand’s offerings of spit-turned bangers and cheesy chips, cinnamon churros and meat pies.

God, she was starving! Where was that git?

Didn’t he know she was waiting on him…and his promised snacks?

True, the teams weren’t out on the field yet and the stadium was only half full as the game didn’t technically start until one, but still, he’d invited her to travel all the way across the channel and he couldn’t be bothered to send her a note to make sure she’d arrived unsplinched?

“Totally rude,” she harrumphed, crossing her arms and sulking.

“I know,” he said from behind her as he rounded the row and plunked his bum down in the seat next to her. “Zabini was such a whiny wanker about being forced to give up his ticket.”

She stared at him. “Your note said Zabini cancelled.”

His mouth did that thing where it turned up at the ends with a devious, little twist and Hermione’s heart suddenly started beating uncontrollably again…much as it had the last afternoon they’d spent together watching Quidditch and he’d brought in fried calamari rings with dipping sauce for them to share.

The man had a way of making her body go haywire with the smallest gestures.

“How was your trip?” he asked

“Uneventful.” _Where are my snacks? _“Yours?”

His grin widened. “Bumpy, but I survived. Thanks for asking. Where are you staying?”

“A hotel.”

“Funny coincidence. Me, too.”

“You mean you’re not staying in a castle belonging to some pure-blood heiress whom you’re having an affair with on the sly?”

She’d meant it to be a ridiculous charge, and yet when Malfoy paused, her eyebrows went up.

“She’s away, touristing in Asia at the moment.”

For some odd reason, something in Hermione’s chest sank a little at that pronouncement.

Malfoy’s shook his head and elbowed her arm lying atop the arm rest between them. “Really, Granger, too easy.” He snuggled back in his chair again and turned towards the action below. “I’d have to have a relationship already established to have a mistress on the side.”

“But you do know a pure-blood heiress living in Norway in a castle?”

The idea seemed ludicrous.

He simply shrugged it off. “Are you hungry yet?”

When was she not, really?

“Maybe, a little,” she admitted, allowing the distraction.

He raised an arm and snapped his fingers. An instant later, the house-elf appeared before them with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Her jaw came unhinged at the sight of rows of artfully displayed chicken teriyaki skewers, a variety of vegetables cut into thin sticks, and a line of honey-garlic roasted cauliflower.

It all smelled heavenly.

“Are we actually eating a relatively healthy snack for once?” she asked, overwhelmed and unsure where to start.

Malfoy tilted his head towards her. “Would you rather pretzels and mince pies again?”

Quickly, she shook her head in the negative.

“I take it you approve of the upgrade, then?”

She gave him her most brilliant smile…and reached for a chicken skewer.


	10. Chapter 10

The game was going on longer than anticipated.

Lunch and tea had come and gone, and now they were enjoying dinner, complete with a very expensive wine, all on Malfoy’s munificence. Normally, Hermione would protest a date spending so much upon her, but he _had_ asked her to come to Norway with him and she was having so much fun…

…And the wine had gone entirely to her head if she thought this was a ‘date’, so much as two old acquaintances reconnecting over outrageous memories and boredom with a scrimmage game that seemed never ending.

They were each turned towards the other to talk, having lost interest in who was doing what outside the window, caught up in funny stories about their days at school.

“Did he really?” Hermione asked after Draco had relayed a hilarious attempt by Blaise Zabini to sneak into the Gryffindor common room during their sixth year, after one of Slughorn’s disastrous dinner parties. “He never gave any indication that he’d liked Gin! We all thought he’d hated her, in fact.”

Her companion scoffed. “He’s been cock-over for Little Red since her fourth year, when she went with Longbottom to the Yule Ball. Too bloody proud and stubborn to admit it, though.”

Hermione considered that. “Well, she’s perfectly available now, if he wants to try again.”

“What about Potter? Aren’t they on-again, off-again every five minutes?”

She sputtered and nearly lost her drink all over the seat as she giggled over his presumption. “Er, no. There’s no chance there of a reconciliation. Harry’s found someone else. Ginny’s as free as a bird, last I’d heard from her a few weeks ago.” She finished off her wine in one go and handed her glass off to him. Draco took it and set it and his own glass aside on a tray nearby, as she sat back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Always bridesmaids, never brides, the both of us.”

“So…you’re not interested in reconciliation with the Weasel King?”

She chuckled. “No, most definitely not. Ron and I haven’t been together since I was nineteen.”

There was a thump as a Bludger hit the front window and bounced off, thanks to the warding upon it. She glanced over to absently note a winter storm was coming in, as the wind gave a shriek and a heavy snow began to fall. As usual, the game carried on despite the inclement weather, and the competition seemed too fierce to break off anytime soon, anyway. 

It seemed it would be a long game again.

Not that she minded. She was in good company, after all.

“Potter then?” Draco pressed the issue, seemingly determined to reveal her dateless existence. “You always seemed close-”

She laughed again. “Nope. Never.”

“Then how did you get a seat in the private box? Usually, only family or romantic partners get them. I mean, I got mine through the Black-family connections, but I just I assumed… I mean, Potter and Weasley are your-”

Turning her head, she grinned at him. “Not even close. If you must know, Mr. Nosy Slytherin, I demanded it for helping _them_ get together!”

It took a minute for Draco to catch on.

“No!” he shouted in surprised denial, and then his face cracked and he began cackling like a mad wizard on a bad mushroom trip. He even bounced around in his seat as if he’d just won the lottery. “Holy shit! Are you telling me those two clowns are-?”

“In love and quite happy,” she said very seriously and gave him a baleful eye to keep him from joking about it. “And not ready to come out to the rest of the world yet, despite having told the family, so if you tell anyone else, I’ll castrate you with a well-cast curse I’ll invent for the occasion.”

He sobered, but his lips twitched with amusement.

“Alright, what will you give me to keep quiet, Granger? Convince me to shut my mouth and keep the juiciest secret in the world.”

She gaped at him and sat up.

“I just told you I’d curse your-”

“You will not.”

“I will,” she promised.

“You like me too much to jeopardize the family jewels, love.”

If it was possible for her jaw to fall to her feet, it would have in that moment.

“I…I don’t like you.”

Draco leaned towards her until their noses bumped. “You do.”

“You’re funny and you ply me with snacks as no other man ever has, but… I mean… Me like _you?_ As in a sexual or romantic fashion?”

He hummed and his mouth buzzed along hers in a way that was enticing.

“You do. And I like you in exactly the same way,” he admitted.

Oh, god, his breath smelled like the wine they’d been drinking and the delicious cinnamon-apple turnovers they’d enjoyed earlier for dessert! How good would he actually taste, she wondered.

“Oh?” she asked, staring him in the eye as their lips rubbed together. “How much do you…_like_ me, then?”

He smiled against her mouth.

“Enough to buy up all of the remaining V.I.P. box seat tickets on Puddlemere’s home turf once I knew the center seat was yours.”

“You-?” Her eyes went wide and her heart began pumping so hard she was sure it could be used to power the entire city of London for a century. “Why would you-?”

“I told you: ever since that night at the Yule Ball, you’ve been my most tempting treat of all,” he said right before he turned his head and claimed her lips briefly, teasing her as he always did into giving in to his desires for her. “I never could resist sweet things.”

_Me, either, _she thought, as she fell into his kiss with full enthusiasm.

It was only when she came up for air sometime later that she realized Draco had been right from the start: some tastes _were_ sinful.

* * *

She couldn’t believe they’d-

In front of the window.

Where everyone could see.

Granted, there’d been a snowstorm that had practically caused a white-out, and aside from a few stragglers, there weren’t many fans in the stadium left, and the Quidditch players…well, they’d been rather engrossed in their game.

Still.

She sighed with pleasure as Draco pressed back inside her, sliding deep and true until the heavy length of him bottomed out and she was deliciously stretched and aching for more.

“Mmm,” he agreed with her unspoken sentiment and moved at a lazy pace.

She was splayed out under him on her chair, naked and sweaty from their previous exertions, and it was going on two o’clock in the morning, and all she could think about was how good he felt inside her…and how in a few hours they’d be having cappuccino and morning pastries together—the soft, fluffy kind with the raspberry and cream cheese filling.

Her nails tightened on his shoulders and she pulled him closer.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered as he kissed a path down her throat and gripped her hips. “I love these curves, Granger. I fucking _adore_ them.” His mouth took possession of hers as he thrust harder into her, his arousal peaking again. “Keep them for me, yes?”

She agreed as she gasped his name and shattered again for him, her thighs shaking and her mind reeling, every sense breathing him in and deciding right then he’d be the one temptation she would forever crave, too.


	11. Epilogue

** _EPILOGUE_ **

Hermione reached for another helping of sausage, and of course, her mother found reason to criticize her for it.

“Keep eating like that, dear, and you’ll have to buy a new wardrobe soon.”

Hermione glanced across the Sunday morning breakfast table and chewed her sausage with a rebellious gleam in her eye. Her mother frowned at her. Her father hid behind his newspaper, as usual, refusing to get involved.

In truth, she loved her parents, and was thankful for their guidance and nitpicky love growing up, as it had forced her to become self-reliant, but the truth was they were both more than a little toxic—especially when it came to issues of consuming sweets. In that one thing, they were well-match by such an unnatural obsession; her father in regards to how sugar affected the teeth and her mother in how it affected a woman’s waistline.

Perhaps she should have left that memory charm in place after all, for they’d been much kinder under the façade she’d created for them during the war. There were somedays, she was tempted…

“That’s okay, Mum,” she told the woman as she finished off her breakfast and sipped her coffee. “I have enough money to buy new clothes if I need to.”

In fact, Hermione knew she was not terribly overweight, nor that her wardrobe was in danger of needing replacement anytime soon. Her snacking habit was sensible and controlled, and she and Draco ‘exercised’ enough to help her keep strength where it mattered. Her health was good, her body fit. So, really, her mother could go take a leap off a tall building. She had nothing to prove to the woman—nothing to prove to _anyone_ who attempted to make her feel inferior.

“Besides, Draco enjoys my curves,” she said as she stood and checked her watch. Five minutes to go… “He says they’re sexy.”

Behind his paper, her father groaned. Her mother gasped as if scandalized.

Hermione ignored them and headed for the door. “Thank you for the breakfast and the talk again,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ll do it again next month!”

As she hit the front door, she let out a relieved breath…and met her boyfriend coming up the walkway.

“Hello!” she greeted him with a kiss, tasting apples on his tongue. “I thought we were meeting later at that little donut shop in Muggle London?”

He tucked an arm around her and guided her towards the gate. “About that…Zabini needs our help.”

She stopped and gave him a look that said, “Spill it or else.”

Her man chuckled, admiring her spunk. “He finally is ready to try for his shot with Little Red, and wants to meet with us to sit down and strategize.”

“You mean ‘scheme’.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed. “And what, exactly, has he offered for our help in this endeavour?”

Draco kissed her soundly, right there in her family’s front yard, unconcerned with voyeurs. “Merlin, I love your mind.”

“And I love your body. Aren’t we a perfect match?”

“Blaise offered these for our help,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a set of gold tickets. “Private V.I.P. box seats for the Holyhead Harpies, for the entire season.” He tossed her a naughty look. “Paper-Scissors-Stone you for the center seat?”

She took the tickets from him. “That’s a good start. What are _you_ offering for my help? He is _your_ friend.”

He knew then the negotiations were in earnest.

As usual, however, her lover had preempted her and came prepared. “I’ve got a box of dark chocolate covered strawberries waiting for you at home. I’ll even feed them to you tonight while wearing my old game uniform, if you agree.”

Her mouth began watering at the thought and she tugged him to the Apparition point as quickly as possible.

“Why wait for later?” she countered, running with him and laughing in joy. “I can have it all right now!”

* * *

Some girls got hearts and love and body positivity and an everlasting supply of chocolates.

Some girls got Quidditch tickets.

Hermione was one lucky witch.

** _~FIN~_ **


End file.
